


Dear Light

by magistraetmater



Category: 10th Century CE RPF, French History RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Carolingians, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:48:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26679265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magistraetmater/pseuds/magistraetmater
Summary: The royal visit to Reims is not going well.
Relationships: Charles the Simple/Frederuna, Charles the Simple/Hagano
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	Dear Light

For once the travel arrangements have worked. The queen’s party has not had its baggage train fall in a ditch or encountered a broken bridge, and so has arrived at Reims only a few hours after King Charles and his followers rode in at the Gate of Mars. Archbishop Hervé’s steward is honest enough that the royal horses are eating fresh hay, not mouldy. The local grape harvest has been terrible, but the archbishop promises some Rhine wine for tomorrow’s feast. There is just one problem left to solve: to persuade the king to leave church, meet his queen, and go in to dinner.

So, as Hagano has half-expected, he is summoned to Eadgifu’s presence. She doesn’t like him – how could she? – but better he takes her message to Charles than some underling whom Charles will ignore. The queen sits in the guest chamber of Saint-Remi’s monastery, accompanied by her women and the abbot, who is looking harassed. Eadgifu may be tiny, but she is terrifying. A princess is surrounded by obedient courtiers from her very first step, and Eadgifu expects the same treatment even at a foreign court. Her dark eyes in that pale, thin face are always ready to flash with anger at the inadequate service she is offered.

Maybe Hagano should tell her the reason for their slackness: _Franks don’t like foreigners, unless they’re offering tribute_. Or give her some simple, brutal advice: _Get yourself with child and you’ll have fawning service from us all._ But after nearly a year of marriage, the queen’s still not just flat-chested, but flat-bellied too. Though it’s not all her fault. It’s also time for Charles to get up off his knees and play his part.

“My dear count,” Eadgifu begins. She doubtless intends to sound sweet, even coaxing, but a knife lurks beneath the honey. “I admire the piety of my well-beloved lord Charles, but he has been at the cathedral for several hours. Can’t you persuade him to join us, Hagano, so that the abbot’s cooks may finish their work before vespers?”

She stumbles over “vespers”: the servants mock her strangely-accented Latin behind her back. But at least he’s “Hagano” to her and not “Agano”, as he is to those of the Franks that can bear to use his name. To the magnates, of course, he’s just “the Lotharingian” or “that mediocrity.” But that doesn’t matter, not while he has Charles’ favour, while the royal brightness shines on him.

The queen probably thinking the same as him. If they'd stayed away from Reims, Charles wouldn’t have been able to visit the tomb again. But he went straight to the cathedral once they'd entered the city, as if drawn there, ignoring the crowds welcoming him, the abbot’s attentive suggestions. And now evening is drawing on, with Charles still in the cathedral and the fish spoiling and the fresh white loaves growing cold. _Someone_ has to fetch the king to the monastery before they all die of starvation.

“I’ll bring him to you, my lady,” Hagano tells Eadgifu and hurries out.

***

The crowd of noblemen lounging around the porch of the cathedral fall silent as he walks through them, though he hears Count Heribert bite off a comment that might be “Viking-lover”. Hagano ignores him and looks hastily round the cathedral as he enters. There are no clerics visible. Which means that they must all be down in the crypt, in the second bay on the right, where Charles will be.

Even though it’s the end of summer, it’s hotter down in the crypt than outside. It’s hot and mostly dark, apart from the flickering brightness in the second bay of the crypt on the right. There, as well as a sarcophagus and the huge candles burning around it, are all the clerics of Saint-Remi Cathedral and the king. _Carolus rex Francorum_. Charles, King of the Franks

 _Carolus_ means "dear light"; ever since Hagano learnt the origin of his lord's name, it's how he thinks of him. Charles lights up his life and he cannot leave that light, even if it will burn him up to ashes in the end. There is nothing to be done about it.

The clerics clearly feel there is nothing they can do about _anything_. Archbishop Hervé in his heavy cope is propped up in a corner behind the candles, the sweat running down his face like melting wax. The lesser clerics stand at the other side of the bay, in once neat rows that are now losing their alignment. They look ready to chant, if only someone would tell them what to sing and where. They probably have a newly-created vigil to perform for St Remi’s Eve, but they can hardly start it yet. You can’t just leave your king alone, while you go off and pray at an altar elsewhere. And you can’t say Mass over the tomb of a dead queen.

Though maybe that’s what they really need. There are special masses asking God for help when the Vikings attack or the crops fail. Maybe someone should write a “Mass for a King Driven Mad by Grief”.

Charles isn’t mad, though. It might be easier if he were. Then the magnates could kick him off the throne and find themselves a new king, like the East Franks once did. But what do you do about a king who’s only mad in one way: that he can’t forget his dead wife?

The burning candles are huge: thousands of bees have worked for their queen and Charles’s. The candlelight flickers over the candlestick labels, and the inscriptions on the sepulchre: “For my late wife Frederuna”, “Queen Frederuna”. Everywhere you look: FREDERUNA, FREDERUNA, FREDERUNA. And that is the name half-whispered again and again by the man kneeling in front of the tomb. Hagano’s dear light, not mad, but not at that moment, perhaps, quite sane.

Charles has not washed off the dust of the ride. He is still in his travelling cloak, its plain hood pulled up as if to shut out the rest of the world. You would take him for no more than a middling noble, till you saw the workmanship of the sword and scabbard that lies on the floor beside him. But the finest wrought gold will not bring his wife back.

His first wife back. Charles’ second wife is in this very city, waiting for _him_ to be brought back to her. Hagano walks round in front of the kneeling figure, and says:

“My lord king?”

He says it once, and then repeats it a little more loudly, so he can be heard above the rush of the candle flames. You do not shout at a king. But there is no response. No doubt the archbishop has also tried this; perhaps Charles has pulled his hood down over his ears to muffle any sermons. When a king has his face covered and his eyes closed, his mouth sounding a dead queen’s name, what courtier would dare interrupt him?

Only Hagano, because his dear light needs help, and he will give it, whatever the risk. He reaches out and pulls the hood back off his king’s head. Charles’ fair hair emerges, gilded by the candlelight, and the king looks up in surprise.

“Hagano,” he says eventually, as if his mind has been wandering afar.

“My lord,” Hagano says hastily. “You’ve been praying for hours. You should eat and rest, keep up your strength.”

“I, I….yes, of course,” Charles replies. He stumbles as he stands up, his legs cramped from kneeling and Hagano reaches out to steady him. His eyes fix on Charles’ face, willing him to remember who he is, what his royal duties are.

Even now, when he’s tired and unhappy and dusty from the road, the king is the most handsome man Hagano’s ever known. Charles’ large grey eyes stare down at him, searching out his secrets. Not all of them, Hagano hopes, his hands dropping from Charles’ sturdy forearms. But he does want Charles to see, to know his own loyalty.

And not to look past him, as Charles is doing now: to see again the stone box in which all that remains of Frederuna lies.

“Why didn’t _you_ at least stay and pray, even if the others abandoned me?” Charles demands. “She was your kinswoman.”

 _I begged God for her life all the time she was ill. He didn’t listen then and He won’t listen now_. He can’t say that. Out of the corner of his eye, Hagano spots the archbishop advancing on them and waves him away. No churchman’s sermonizing can help Charles's grief. Only he can, sometimes, find the right thing to say. As he must now, before the visit to Reims is ruined.

“I did not pray, my lord king,” he tells Charles slowly, “because Queen Frederuna is in heaven already. She does not need prayers from us.”

“She is in heaven?” Charles’ voice hovers between hope and scepticism.

“She was a truly good woman. Everyone loved her.”

“No. They should have done, but they didn’t.”

Charles is right, of course. Six reasons for Frederuna’s unpopularity: Ermentrude, Frederuna, Adelaide, Gisla, Rotrude and Hildegard. How can a queen bear six children and all of them girls? Charles has bastard sons, of course, but they’re no use. Which is why Eadgifu is such a blessing. She’s young and Charles is still virile at forty. One son and all their problems are over. If only Charles will forget his dead wife and remember his living one.

He mustn’t say that. He mustn’t say anything that will drive his lord back into himself, into the hell of memory, where Frederuna is forever dying but might yet live. He’s sat with the king at too many dawns since then, with Charles incessantly recalling those terrible hours. But now is not the time for that. It is the present that Charles must deal with now, and the future. Or tomorrow, at least.

“Tomorrow,” Hagano says, as firmly as he can, trying to anchor his words in the restless churning of Charles’ thoughts. “Tomorrow is St Remi’s day.” Charles nods.

“The special saint of the Franks,” Hagano does on, “who has loved us and protected us since the days of King Clovis. Who has defended you since you were made king in this very church. Tomorrow is his feast day, and we will all beg his aid, for ourselves and those we mourn. St Remi, who feasts at God’s own banquet in heaven, will hear us and comfort us.”

“You’re right,” Charles replies, and there’s a surreptitious rumble of agreement from the cathedral clerics, who are obviously listening to their conversation.

“But tonight,” Hagano continues patiently, “we must go and honour the abbot of St Remi’s monastery. And let the good archbishop here prepare for tomorrow’s festivities. So that tomorrow our lights may burn bright and our voices ring loud for St Remi and Francia.”

“Hear, hear,” says one of the clerics and is hastily shushed. Hagano waits, staring at Charles. In the flickering light, it’s hard to tell his expression, but suddenly Charles reaches down for his sword belt.

“My lord, let me,” says Hagano, and straps it rounds Charles. “Queen Eadgifu is waiting to greet you. at the monastery. We should go now.”

“Of course,” says Charles. He looks around the crypt again, now with the briskness of a ruler. “My lord archbishop, fare you well. I’ll see you tomorrow. Come, Hagano, let’s find our dinner. I hope that the abbot’s cheeses are good.”

He strides out of the crypt and Hagano follows him to the cathedral doors. It's almost dark now and the nobles and bodyguards are sitting around, drinking and dicing. Servants runs off to find their horses and Duke Robert stalks up from the shadows, still in full armour, apart from his bare head.

“Have you finished your prayers, my lord king?” he asks briskly. He’s an old man – over fifty – but he’s still keener on fighting than churchgoing.

“Have you begun yours yet, Robert?” Charles replies with a smile. “Surely you have some sins for which you should repent?”

“As we all do, sire,” Hagano says hastily, “But we will have plenty of prayers tomorrow and St Remi himself to hear us.” He sends a quick prayer up to the saint: _Don’t let Charles quarrel with Duke Robert tonight_.

Whether or not Remi knows Hagano’s thoughts, Charles seems to hear them. He smiles at Robert and says, “My lady queen is at the monastery. My lord duke Robert, your men should lead our party there.”

Robert nods and is about to leave, when Charles turns to Hagano and adds, “And Hagano, you are to ride beside me. I want to discuss a suitable gift to Saint-Remi’s church.”

Hagano watches Robert’s face beneath the grizzled hair turn to stone. The duke says nothing, but Hagano reads his own doom in Robert’s blazing eyes. It’s one insult too many to the duke’s honour, having Hagano as Charles's counsellor rather than him. Robert will be revenged, Hagano knows. _Death is coming for me_. The hangman’s noose, the executioner’s axe, or a knife in the dark? He doesn’t know, but he is certain that Duke Robert wants him dead. And Robert is very, very good at killing people.

But for now, Robert turns on his heels and stomps away, shouting orders to his men. Hagano’s horse is brought and he leaps onto it. Niveus is a young stallion, still a little headstrong, but very fast. Put his heels to him and Hagano could race all the way back to Lotharingia. Back to his home, and safety, far away from Duke Robert’s reach.

But Charles is beside him, magnificent as ever on his perfectly-controlled bay, his smile bright in the torchlight. How could Hagano leave him? Being without his dear light would be like being without the sun itself. He will be loyal to the death, as he has always promised. He pulls his stallion’s head round and follows Charles down the dark road.


End file.
